


The Wolf At The Door

by TallGingerUnicorn



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TallGingerUnicorn/pseuds/TallGingerUnicorn
Summary: A determined young sheriff, a family on the run, and a mysterious dark force hungry for their destruction. Romance and vengeance all wrapped up in one historical western Wayhaught AU. Can they keep the wolf from the door?





	1. Ace In The Hole

The bruised sky squatted over the Ghost River Valley, frowning upon a collection of ramshackle buildings that cowered into the lee of a wide saddleback. A polar wind nipped at Sheriff Nicole Haught's exposed skin as she lowered her field glasses and stood up, stiff joints protesting the sudden movement with rosebuds of pain that cracked like ice beneath her chilled flesh.

The tall red-head retraced her steps along the narrow ridge, amusing herself by playing at tracking, noting where her boots had slipped in the clumps of wet snow on her approach to the overlook. A dozen feet away her horse stood hunched over, rump to the lashing gusts that roared across the prairie on the other side of the escarpment, his black mane whipping about a sullen eye that watched her with suspicion.

Nicole replaced the field glasses into her saddle pouch and gathered up the reins, then mounted with practised ease. The gelding shifted his weight and snorted a little, raising his head with his ears flicked back in ill temper. Nicole laid a conciliatory hand on the dun's thick neck and leaned forward.

“How about we get out of this storm, boy?” she murmured, and with the barest touch of her spurs the gelding started forward. His dour nature abandoned him and was replaced with eagerness. He began to pick confidently between the boulders and grasses on a path only he could see, but one Nicole trusted him to follow.

She hunkered down as best she could behind the stiff collar of her overcoat, lowering her hat brim to cover most of her forehead in a vain attempt to protect her eyes. Stinging flurries of sleet were beginning to drive down from the pregnant clouds overhead. Winter was finally here.

The ride back to Purgatory was long and it gave Nicole plenty of time to muse as she sat docile and let the gelding find his way. She hugged one arm around her lean torso, fingers brushing the fine leather holster that nestled against her left hip.

She'd been searching for signs of the Earp gang for weeks now, ever since rumour had started following the heels of fleeing convoys from the east. They all spoke of the same thing – a fearless gunslinger named Wynonna, her cunning younger sister Waverly, and a brilliant young scientist named Jeremy. The three of them had pillaged their way to the Ghost River Valley, where a young female sheriff was itching to spoil their fun.

Nicole's ire waxed for the duration of the trek back to Purgatory, and by the time she dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy she was fully incensed, her bubbling anger screaming for release. Nicole let her mind caress the rage, giving it the recognition it sought, as she stepped out into the main street and turned into the gale.

Purgatory began as a one horse town and still retained the temporary look of its original intent as a watering hole and trading station on the Pony Express route. But families making the pilgrimmage Out West had settled over the years and swelled the ranks. While older buildings lined the wide main street, newer homes were beginning to crop up on side streets that fishboned the length of the town. There were two general stores, a hatmaker, a forge, a livery stable, and even a coffin maker responsible the newly erected cemetery on the edge of town. The Purgatory Sheriff's building was smack bang in the middle, right across the road from the saloon where many a fighting drunk was denied his libations in favour of a short walk to a cell for the evening.

It was to the saloon that Nicole headed now, for she knew she wouldn't find her deputy at his desk. Sure enough he was the first figure she laid eyes on as she stepped out of the cold and shook the snow from her shoulders.

“Doc,” she rasped, voice harsh from disuse. John Henry Holliday looked up from his seat at the bar and wordlessly poured her a measure of whiskey. Nicole threw it back, relishing the warmth that coated her throat and settled in the pit of her stomach. She slammed the glass down and Doc refilled it without prompting.

“I couldn't see anything from the ridge,” Nicole told him, earning herself a dismissive grunt.

“No, you won't,” he drawled. “I know the kind. They'll avoid any place they think is on high alert. They'll have some sort of camp in the mountains and they'll make their peace there for the time being. Wait until folks start worrying about something else.”

“It's been weeks, Doc,” Nicole reminded him, leaning her elbows on the bar. It was quiet in the saloon tonight and she was careful to keep her tone low lest someone overhear. A quick glance assured her no one was paying the lawmen mind. “They haven't hit a convoy since the Reese family a month ago. They've never waited this long before.”

“Oh, sure,” Doc said airily, twirling the caramel coloured alcohol in his glass. “They'll be itching to make their next move. But they aren't stupid, Haught. They want to catch their next victim off guard.”

Doc's casual attitude laid the whip to Nicole's temper. “Look,” she hissed. The door creaked and she cast a furtive look over. An attractive young woman stepped inside on the arm of a mustachioed young man with a dark complexion. Nicole leaned closer to Doc. “The Reese family was on their way to Purgatory from Dawson. Before that a mail convoy was attacked en route to Dawson from Fort Eagle. And before that they heisted a goods train heading between Fort Eagle and the Capitol. They're working their way inland. It stands to reason that Purgatory is their next target!”

The woman and her companion took a table in the far corner, several feet away from anyone else. Doc watched them idly as he pondered his reply to Nicole's tongue lashing. He seemed to decide on placation.

“You're probably right, Haught,” he said eventually. “We better increase patrols on the trade route and send armed guards out to escort high profile convoys.”

Nicole sipped her whiskey, mollified for the moment. After a few minutes the new arrivals shifted restlessly and the woman soon stood up. She beelined for Nicole and Doc.

“Hello,” she greeted them, a friendly white-toothed grin stretching her pretty face. “Are you the Sheriff?” she asked Doc.

Nicole bristled.

“Regrettably, I am not,” Doc replied, barely concealing his joy at Nicole's displeasure. “This here is Sheriff Haught, she oversees Purgatory and all who inhabit it. God bless their souls.” He reached for the flask and poured himself another measure.

“Oh! Apologies,” the newcomer said hastily, directing her smile at Nicole instead. Nicole was struck by how beautiful she was, a rarity in Purgatory where people tended to take on the same harsh appearance of the landscape that would eventually break their spirits. This newcomer was a fresh flower in a land of scrub and tumbleweeds.

“How can I assist you?” Nicole asked, hitching her lips upwards in a forced smile. The woman's grin wavered a little.

“My … companion and I are travelling,” the woman replied, gesturing to the dark-skinned man by the door. He waved sheepishly and Nicole saw that behind his bushy moustache he looked quite young. “We were alarmed to find a broken wagon on the side of a trail. It looked as though there had been a scuffle.”

A scuffle? Nicole sat up, senses suddenly electrified. “Where?” she asked.

“About fifteen miles up the valley, where the trail comes out of the mountains.”

Fifteen miles up the valley … that would place the wagon thirty miles closer than the last reported Earp attack. Nicole felt the thrill of the chase begin to thrum through her veins.

“When did you come across this wagon? Were there any casualties? Horses?” The questions clipped rapid-fire from the red-head's tongue. The young woman looked slightly taken aback, but proferred the answers Nicole sought with no hesitation.

“A day ago. There was no sign of life, horse or human.” The stranger wasn't smiling now but her eyes danced in the dim lamplight behind the bar. Nicole couldn't help but notice how they were the colour of slate.

Nicole mused. It was late in the day, and light was failing by the minute as the storm settled in. She wouldn't be able to see much in the dark, but she'd be able to see less tomorrow if it snowed tonight. She would have to ride out now, and with haste, if she was to inspect the wagon.

The newcomer jumped back slightly in alarm as Nicole abruptly stood, scraping the stool across the beaten wooden floor. Doc's eyes followed her, his expression tight. He knew what she was thinking and he opened his mouth to argue, but Nicole cut smoothly across him before the words could form in his throat.

“Have Tundra saddled,” she instructed him. “Sly deserves the rest. And you may as well saddle something for yourself. You're coming with me.” There was a ring of finality to her tone and Doc saw sense not to question her. He deliberated for a second as though he might, then he snorted, threw back the last of his whiskey, tipped his hat to her in deference, and left the saloon.

“I'll come with you,” the woman offered quickly. Too quickly. But in her frenzy of motion Nicole paid no heed.

“Ma'am, with all due respect there's a storm brewing outside. It's dangerous,” she replied. The last thing she wanted was a delicate young flower slowing her up.

“Do you want to find the wagon or not?” the stranger snapped. She blinked in surprise, then picked up her smile again. “I mean, it'll be much quicker if my partner and I accompany you. The wagon is off the trail and in the gathering dark you may very well miss it.”

Nicole pondered her words and realised the woman was right. “If you insist,” she said, shrugging. The woman turned and gave her companion an imperceptible gesture. He nodded and clambered clumsily from his seat, exiting the saloon quickly.

“I'm Nicole, by the way,” Nicole said, removing her calfskin glove and offering the young woman her hand.

The newcomer took it, her grip matching Nicole's in firmness. Nicole was surprised to feel calluses beneath her palm. “W –” she began, then caught herself. “Wilhelmina,” she finished. She held Nicole's grip and gaze a little longer than necessary. Nicole felt something odd niggling at her conscious, a foreign notion that seemed married to this woman's touch.

At that moment the saloon doors slapped back against the wall. Doc materialised from the gloom, dressed warmly, and nodded wordlessly.

“If you will, Miss Wilhelmina,” Nicole said, sweeping her arm in invitation for the stranger to lead the way.

It was freezing outside. Dusk was probably three hours away but with the weather closing in it was falling early. Nicole replaced her glove and waited while Wilhelmina threw on a cloak. Her dark-skinned partner appeared mounted on a horse the same colour as his complexion. He led a pretty little palomino by the reins and Doc stepped forward to help Wilhelmina into the saddle. She stopped him with one elegant hand.

“Thank you, sir, but I'm more than capable.” Doc shrugged and mounted his own sturdy roan smoothly. Wilhelmina hitched up her skirts and carefully climbed aboard her mare, who turned her nose and touched it to the woman's boot as she settled herself in the saddle. Nicole raised her eyebrows at Doc and Wilhelmina caught the look.

“I prefer to ride astride, Sheriff Haught, I find it shocks the gentry.” The cheeky grin she shot at Nicole caused the breath to catch in her chest. To mask her reaction Nicole turned and swiftly mounted her fresh horse, a stocky old grey gelding, and reined him towards the street.

“Lead the way,” she said, simply.


	2. Pocket Advantage

It was a long ride to the foot of the mountains but the road was easy. Wilhelmina led the way on her palomino at a quick jog. Nicole rode behind her, then came Doc, and Wilhelmina's thus far unnamed companion brought up the rear. The black veil of impending night impeded Nicole's vision to the sides so she found herself focusing on the bouncing figure of Wilhelmina before her. Even under the cloak Nicole could tell her body was shapely. Her cloak was hooded, but every now and then a lock of brown hair whipped into view as the wind gusted into their faces. Doc carried a lamp but its weak light illuminated very little beyond the golden rump of Wilhelmina's mare. Eventually Nicole contented herself with tucking her chin into her upturned collar and letting Tundra have his head.

They were making good time but it was well over an hour before they reached the foot of the mountains. The weather hadn't worsened, but nor had it bettered itself, so it was into a black maelstrom they began to pick their way as the trail narrowed and started its ascent. The horses seemed unperturbed by the blackness around them and their nonchalance eased any worries Nicole might have had about surprising something malicious as the trail twisted and turned.

The convoy climbed for a short while until suddenly from the inky murk there loomed the hulking carcass of an upturned wagon. Wilhelmina sat back and her mare slowed, Tundra following suit with no queue from Nicole. Doc reined up beside Nicole and held his lamp out to cast its weak glow over the wreckage. His gelding snorted from his efforts and champed at the bit, white foam dripping from his lips to fleck his broad chest.

“That's the wagon we saw, Sheriff Haught,” Wilhelmina said, pitching her voice so that it sounded over the whistling wind.

The wagon had come to rest at the bottom of a particularly steep, straight incline that Nicole knew climbed a good half mile above their heads. It was a notoriously treacherous stretch of the trail that must be traversed with the drag on any cart that attempted the descent. With a sense of trepidation that this was a bad accident, Nicole dismounted and handed her reins to Doc. She took the lamp from him and stepped towards the wagon.

It had come to rest against a rocky promontory that jutted out from the edge of the trail. On the far side the ground sloped down a dozen or more feet to a narrow gully, concealed by shrub and trees. Nicole could hear the chattering of water beyond the limpid pool of yellow light emanating from her hand. Her boots crunched on the cold dirt as she carefully approached the wagon, heart hammering against her ribcage.

Her worst fears were confirmed as she carefully edged around the splintered rear of the carriage. A woman's body in a pale, shapeless pink dress lay on its side, back to Nicole, a black cloak draped haphazardly over her shoulders like a shroud.

“I found someone,” she called back to Doc. “I'm going to take a closer look.”

There was no reply from Doc, but Nicole was accustomed to that. She didn't look for his approval. Instead she stepped closer, boots skidding a little in the gravel, and knelt down to reach for a pulse.

She never got to find it. With the speed of a rattlesnake the woman's inert body suddenly animated. The cloak erupted backwards into Nicole's face, immediately blinding her, and she dropped the lamp to scrabble at the cloth over her eyes. The glass of the lamp shattered beside her boots and she felt hot pricks of oil on her denim trousers. It felt like forever before her fingers managed to find purchase on the slick material, and when she finally pulled it free she came face to face with a six-shooter pointed directly at her forehead. Nicole froze, only her gaze moved as it followed the long, smooth barrel up a bare, pale arm to the smirking face she had chased through her nightmares for several moons now. She began to reach for her own gun. A clicking sound stopped her dead as the pistol in her face was cocked.

“Don't even think about it,” said Wynonna Earp.

Rage bubbled thick and hot in Nicole's breast as the outlaw motioned for her to stand.

“Hands in the air now, real easy and slow,” she drawled, casually. Nicole raised her arms high. Wynonna quickly disarmed her, turning the sheriff's Colt back on its owner. Now there were two guns trained on Nicole, whose only hope of rescue was her deputy on the other side of the wagon. But how could she get his attention without Wynonna Earp ventilating her head?

“What are you playing at?” Nicole asked, trying to speak loud enough for her voice to carry to Doc.

“Simple mathematics, Sheriff … Haught, is it? We have to protect our own interests.”

Wynonna had used Nicole's name, she must have heard Wilhelmina when they arrived. Nicole's blood ran cold as realisation dawned cruelly on her. Wilhelmina hadn't shouted to be heard over the wind, she'd shouted to warn Wynonna that they had arrived. They were working together.

Doc.

Nicole abandoned caution.

“Doc! Run!” she hollered. “Run! It's Wynonna Earp!” The screeching wind seemed to mock her as it swallowed the echoes.

Wynonna rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue in admonishment. “Sheriff Haught, do you really think your beloved deputy is in any position to obey?” She flicked the barrel of her long-nosed Ruger, motioning for Nicole to head back around the wagon. Nicole did as she was told, mind racing. What did Wynonna mean? She stepped towards the trail with as much dread as she had left it, convinced she'd see Doc dead on the cold ground.

To her surprise and immense relief Doc wasn't dead, but nor was he waiting with his usual laconic complaints. He'd been dismounted, forcibly by the looks of his missing hat and bloody lips, and was kneeling with his hands behind his head. Wilhelmina stood directly behind him, gun and eyes trained intensely between the lawman's broad shoulders. The dark man remained mounted. His gun was also pointed at Doc, the barrel shaking with nerves or the cold, Nicole couldn't tell. How she hadn't heard the scuffle she also didn't know.

“Run, Doc, run,” Wynonna mimicked, then she laughed. Wilhelmina grinned and the dark man gave a weak chuckle, eyes darting from Doc to Wynonna and quickly back to Doc. Nicole surmised that his unsteady hand was indeed from nerves and stored the information away for when it could become useful.

“Wynonna Earp,” Doc snarled.

“John Henry Holliday,” she replied with equal venom. For an instant one of her guns twitched as if she wanted to aim it at Nicole's deputy, but ultimately it remained pointed at her.

“Wait, you two know each other?” Nicole exclaimed.

“Intimately,” Wynonna breathed with a grimace. Doc's face flushed.

“In my defence I didn't know the devil wore pink,” he retorted.

“A halo only has to slip a few inches to become a noose,” Wynonna responded. “You taught me that.” This time she did switch a gun to point at Doc.

Nicole felt as though she wasn't the focus of attention anymore, and she used the opportunity to needle. Maybe if she inflamed Wynonna enough she could distract her. “Don't tell me this is an elaborate plot to murder Doc for his shortcomings in bed,” she said aloud. It had the opposite effect – Wynonna snorted in amusement while Doc bristled.

“My _what?_ ” he thundered.

“Oh come now, Doc, everyone knows if you can win with a pair of threes you'll play them,” Wynonna said. Even Nicole laughed at that. Wynonna cocked her head at the redhead. “So have you two …?”

“Oh god no!” Nicole said quickly. “No, no. Absolutely not. He's not my … type.”

“Yeah, he always was all hat and no cattle,” Wynonna mused. Doc looked between the two of them, aghast. Somehow a deadly standoff had devolved into parlour talk, with both women now inexplicably familiar. Wynonna seemed to sense the same thing and hitched an air of authority back to her voice.

“Waverly, bind 'em,” she commanded.

Wilhelmina, Waverly, nodded. Nicole felt shock slam into her body. Waverly! She'd had Waverly Earp at her mercy for hours and hadn't known! She cursed herself as the younger Earp swiftly lashed Doc's wrists behind his back, then affected Nicole the same treatment. All the while Wynonna and Jeremy kept their six-shooters ready.

“Sorry I had to trick you,” Waverly whispered to Nicole as she bound her. Nicole tested the knots and found, that while Waverly had mercifully made the tension comfortable, there would be no quick escape from the ties.

Wynonna clearly wasn't risking an escape attempt. She attached Doc by a long rope around his neck to his own horse which she herself mounted, the gelding snorting uneasily at the lighter weight and the rope dragging across his haunches. Nicole was attached to the horn of Waverly's saddle in the same fashion. Her own grey gelding was ponied by the dark-skinned kid Nicole now guessed was Jeremy Chetri who fell into his customary position at the rear. Together the rag-tag convoy of prisoners and their new gaolers began the climb.

They moved in silence for a long time. Nicole's legs, unaccustomed to such rigorous exertion, were soon on fire. Her cheeks also burned, but in shame. She felt like such a greenhorn. She'd made basic mistakes that Wynonna had easily exploited to capture her and her deputy. In her haste to capture the infamous outlaws she had let herself become distracted and had, in turn, been taken. Nicole could almost hear her father chiding her. _Don't put the cart before the horse, Nicole,_ he would say if she ever got impatient. _You have to make your enemies work for you._ He always was the voice of reason, but Nicole took after her mother – hot-headed, impetuous. Daddy would laugh and say it was the Irish in them.

That had never sat well with Nicole. She idolised her father, wanted to be just like him. Domestic duties and idle gossip didn't interest her as much as they did her mother. Nicole ached for adventure and testing her limits. Her father taught her chess at a young age and through countless losses Nicole learned to plan ahead until one day she beat him, then beat him again. Daddy joked he should hang up his spurs. She never lost another match.

Together they had gone hunting in the hills. Nicole became a student of patience through sitting long hours peering down the open sights of her father's Winchester. She learned to steady herself when aiming, to hold her breath before making her shot, to be sure before she pulled the trigger. Their family was never in want for meat once Nicole knew how to hunt.

But all those lessons had been squandered tonight and Nicole felt shame settle itself on her shoulders, adding weight to her climb.

It seemed like hours before Wynonna, leading the way, finally turned from the main trail and began winding her way along a small, rocky chasm cut long ago by flash flooding. The going underfoot wasn't easy. The horses, large though they were, seemed to have a better time than Nicole and Doc who couldn't use their arms to balance. Nicole slipped numerous times on the slick boulders and her knees ached with bruises by the time the chasm opened up into a sheltered clearing just large enough for a small camp. Overhead the mountain walls stretched out of sight in the dark, the howling wind so far away it was nearly muted. A tiny creek ribboned its way sluggishly from a slit in the rock beyond two exhausted looking tents.

Wynonna dismounted and yanked Doc's neck rope, pulling him to his knees. He yelped in pain.

“Secure the two of them. We'll take turns keeping watch,” she ordered, then began unsaddling Doc's horse.

Waverly slipped gracefully from her saddle and gently led Nicole and Doc to an open space just behind the tents, up against the sheer cliffs. Once there she quickly set about hog-tying them. The position was uncomfortably cramped, but Nicole wouldn't have done any differently had she been in Waverly's boots.

“I'm sorry about this, Sheriff,” Waverly apologised, leaning close to secure her wrists to her ankles. The proximity inflamed something deep within Nicole, a beast that strained to howl when Waverly's pert breasts brushed against Nicole's knees. Alarmed, she attempted to quell her thoughts. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Mercifully, Waverly seemed unaware.

Once her task was complete Waverly stood, smiled sympathetically at the both of them, and picked her way back between the two tents to where Jeremy was stirring embers into flames. The horses had all been unsaddled, watered, and were now neatly picketed at a makeshift hitching post on the far side of the shallow creek. Wynonna was patting Tundra who, traitorously, was enjoying the affection.

Nicole watched Waverly bend to murmur something to Jeremy, then tore her gaze away to look at Doc. He was watching her with a strange expression on his face, but Nicole wasn't keen to find out what it was. Instead she gave voice to the unanswered question that had haunted her for the past few hours.

“How are we going to get out of this?”


	3. The Ties That Bind

That first night of their incarceration offered little hope for escape. All three outlaws were too nervous, too wired, to be fooled or beguiled into letting their captives slip free. Nicole and Doc exhausted themselves watching for opportunities that never came, though for a few brief hours they found amusement in preying on Jeremy's insecurities.

“You know why they call this the 'graveyard shift', don't you, boy?” Doc had goaded. But Jeremy wouldn't rise to the taunts. He remained hunched impassively by the fire, eyes flicking around the clearing and to the two prisoners, never resting on any one surface for long. Each time a horse snorted he jumped, hand leaping to the Colt strapped to his hip. It would take several minutes for him to settle again, as settled as he could be in the dark of night with two dangerous people ten feet away.

Towards dawn Waverly relieved him and before long Doc slipped into slumber, snoring softly with hot breaths that reeked of liquor and ruffled his moustache. Sleep would not come for Nicole. Instead she watched as Waverly busied herself. She put fresh wood on the fire and began quietly assembling pans.

Nicole didn't know what struck her so about Waverly. It was an impulse as raw as instinct. Something about the younger Earp awakened a primal urge deep in Nicole that both frightened her and filled her with an eagerness akin to dogs keening for the hunt. It was like riding a horse that wouldn't bend to the bridle – all power and no control.

Nicole wrestled with this torment for a good while as her eyes followed Waverly about the camp. When the first rays of dawnlight hit the top of the cliffs high above Waverly began to brew coffee, and before Wynonna could appear she brought a cup to Nicole.

“Here,” she smiled, keeping her lips pressed together in a way that made her eyes dance merrily. Nicole drank from the proferred tin mug like a woman dying of thirst. The coffee was unsweetened yet it tasted like the nectar of the gods poured as it was from Waverly's elegant hands. It warmed the sheriff's empty stomach and cleared the fogginess of exhaustion from her head.

“Thanks,” she croaked, smiling back. A lock of her flame-red hair fell across her face and Waverly pinched it gently in her thin fingers, reaching to tuck it behind Nicole's ear. The urge to turn her face into Waverly's palm screamed at Nicole and she involuntarily twitched her chin to the side, lips brushing the heel of Waverly's hand. Just as quickly she wrenched away and looked up, meeting Waverly's dark eyes which brooded with an intensity that caused Nicole's breath to catch in her chest and the blood to roar in her ears.

“Coffee!” came a piercing, sing-song voice that cut like a whip through the chill morning air. Both Waverly and Nicole jumped, the connection severed as Wynonna emerged from her tent and strode gleefully towards the fire. The empty tin mug clattered from Waverly's hands, rousing Doc with a snort and a holler as he strained against his bonds, momentarily forgetting where he was. In his panic he attempted to stand and pitched forward, landing heavily on his face.

“Doc!” exclaimed Nicole. Her yelp brought Jeremy tumbling from his tent, trousers falling about his ankles so that he, too, fell. His gun clattered out of reach. The horses spooked and their hooves drummed on the loose rock of the clearing. All the while Wynonna stood motionless in the chaos she'd created, sipping with great joy at the steaming mug cradled in her hands.

In ten seconds Jeremy was on his feet, trousers in place, gun retrieved, and Doc had been righted with nothing wounded bar his pride. Waverly busied herself bringing the deputy some coffee. She didn't look at Nicole again.

Once breakfast was done (Jeremy drawing the short straw and having to spoon feed the two captives hot grits) the three outlaws settled around the fire and hosted a hushed communion between them. Try as she might Nicole couldn't overhear what they were saying, but judging by the furtive looks thrown their way she assumed the discussion involved her and Doc. She looked up to the far wall where the horses dozed, saddles laid out of reach but close by. There was no way they'd have the time to tack up if they attempted an escape, they'd have to ride bareback.

And they didn't have weapons. Nicole couldn't see her Colt anywhere. She inferred it was in Wynonna's tent. So she'd have to take someone else's weapon instead. Just as the thought came to her Jeremy stood up and stretched, coat falling open to show his revolver. A plan began to take shape in Nicole's head.

Jeremy's movement signalled the end of the secretive pow-wow by the fire. Wynonna took a seat on a boulder and started cleaning her Ruger, while Waverly set about clearing the pots and pans. She stepped daintily to the edge of the water and washed them, then carefully packed them away. The camp was one of economy, anything important was returned to packs to be ready at a moment's notice if the trio needed to take flight. Despite her compromised position, Nicole admired the efficiency. This was a well-practised unit and clearly the reason they had remained at large for so long.

Nicole turned to look at Doc only to find his face twisted. Worry leaped into her throat.

“Are you okay?” she hissed, eyeing Wynonna.

“I'm fine,” he grunted in reply. Then the grimace turned to a grin and he raised one, freed, hand to waggle the fingers at Nicole.

“How did you do that?!” she exclaimed. He hushed her and both of them glanced again to their captors, but the exchange had gone unnoticed. Jeremy had disappeared. Waverly was closest, her back turned as she hung bedraggled laundry from the rope ties of Wynonna's tent. The older Earp now had her pistol completely taken apart.

Nicole felt a cold thrill. If she'd been prepared this would have been the perfect time to strike. Waverly unaware, Wynonna unarmed, only Jeremy was a threat but experience told Nicole he would be of little consequence.

When she turned back to Doc she saw he was now completely free of his bonds.

“How –?” she began again, but he pressed a finger to his lips. A flash of something metal winked at Nicole from his sleeve and she saw a hidden blade obscured by the cuff of his long, grey woollen overcoat.

“Don't trust every man to drink with his gun hand,” Doc replied, grinning.

“You couldn't have done this sooner?” she whispered as he began to work quietly on her own ties.

“I didn't fancy a breakneck ride down a mountain pass in the dead of night,” he said. With a small sound the old rope connecting her wrists to her ankles snapped. Doc quickly set to freeing her hands.

“Fair point.” Nicole watched Waverly's back. She quickly calculated – two long strides to Waverly, one swift movement to disarm her, point the weapon at Wynonna who had yet to reassemble her Ruger. Doc could cut the ties of Jeremy's tent, collapse it, entangle the kid so he couldn't be a threat. In thirty seconds they could have all three arrested and ready to haul back to Purgatory. Nicole didn't think any further than that, she didn't want to picture Waverly in a cell.

Or the gallows.

The final knot snapping against the sharp edge of Doc's knife broke Nicole from her reverie and she felt her limbs suddenly freed. With gratitude she rubbed the skin on her wrists. Doc was now surveying the scene, cataloguing as Nicole had their means of possible triumph. Waverly was hanging the last sock, Wynonna had started putting her Ruger back together, Jeremy was still nowhere to be seen. It was now or never.

“Tent,” Nicole mouthed to Doc, tilting her head to punctuate her meaning. He nodded his assent.

They rose as one. In a blink Nicole closed the distance to Waverly and grasped her arm, twisting and trapping it behind her, fumbling with her other hand for the pistol in its holster. It moulded to the grip and freed the weapon just as Doc collapsed Jeremy's tent. With lightning reflexes a ranch-hand would approve he balled the canvas around a hollering Jeremy and lashed it shut.

“Don't ...” Nicole ordered, cocking Waverly's Colt as Wynonna made to run, “even think about it.” The older Earp paused, hands splayed to the side and open to convey her submission.

Waverly struggled a little, but Nicole's grip was true. She pulled her back until the length of them pressed close. Heat pooled between them. “Relax,” she breathed into Waverly's ear. Then she straightened to smile at Wynonna. “How the tables have turned,” she said, satisfaction dripping from her tone.

“Slick moves, Haught,” Wynonna replied, the compliment cold as the winter air. She turned slowly, hands remaining passive, so that she squared off with the redhead. “Reminds me a lot of your father.”

Nicole's smugness waned a little, suddenly tenuous. “How did you know my father?” she asked. Wynonna's smile twitched, taking on the guise of a smirk. Nicole knew she was being baited but the lure was too irresistible. Wynonna's next words slammed into Nicole with the force of an express train.

“I know how he died.”

********************************************************

If a man was to walk into the clearing at the same instant Wynonna played her hand he might very well be forgiven for assuming he'd walked in on some strange theatre. So comical was the situation Nicole found herself in with her next breath, holding captive one woman with the other pinned in her sights, her deputy straddling a babbling roll of canvas.

“My father was killed by Indians,” she replied slowly, measuring now with uncertainty what she had always taken as truth.

“Your father was murdered,” Wynonna agreed, “but not by the Creek.”

“How do you know this?” Nicole asked, her hand steadier than her voice.

But Wynonna didn't answer, at least not directly. Instead she looked to Doc.

“You were there, Holliday,” she said. “Why don't you tell her? In fact, why _haven't_ you told her?”

Wynonna's misdirection had the desired effect. Nicole turned her attention to Doc, although she kept her barrel pointed at the older Earp sister. Waverly was mercifully still and quiet, which afforded Nicole's racing mind no distraction as she echoed the fateful words now drumming into her skull like a woodpecker's bill.

“You were there?” she choked. Tears came hot to her eyes, chest constricting to deny her air. A great sob formed and wracked her, tightening its grip on her thundering heart. The world was spinning.

All blood fled from Doc's face where he sat as stone, and the haunted pitting of his visage gave Nicole the answer she sought though she ached for it to come from his lips. Hearing it aloud would lend some irrational legitimacy to the claim. As if uttering the words would become the final slamming nail in the coffin.

“Now, Miss Haught --” he began.

“Don't mock me, Holliday!” she spat. “ _Were you there?_ ”

He nodded. Blind fury exploded within her and Nicole wrenched the gun around to point it directly at Doc's face.

“ _SAY IT!_ ” she bellowed, spittle flying. Waverly whimpered as the grip Nicole had on her wrist suddenly became a vice. The force was involuntary, but in the throes of her grief Nicole was unable to remedy it.

John Henry Holliday's next words came softer than snowflakes, but Nicole heard them.

“I was there.”


End file.
